Still Life
by AstraPerAspera
Summary: An orphanage. A photograph. A camera phone. Spoilers for Series 6.


Still Life

He'd completely forgotten about it. In the dizzying swirl of emotions and battle and revelations that had ensued, those few precious moments of unequaled happiness had all but slipped from his memory as if they belonged to another man…another life. And maybe it had been better that way…to not remember the feel of his daughter in his arms and the press of Amy's lips to his when, for just that instance, he thought the universe had been righted and both were safe in his protective embrace.

And maybe he'd _tried_ not to remember. Because he was good at that…at closing doors on things he'd rather not think about and pushing them away because they were so ridiculous as to hardly seem even real at all.

But then what in his life wasn't ridiculous since he'd known Amy, with her stories of the raggedy Doctor and his mad Blue Box. Although there were still days when he'd lay in bed, caught in that half-conscious state before waking, and convince himself that it really was just a story they'd both made up. A fairy tale sort of dream, and nothing more. Something to wake up from and be relieved to find that the world was nice and normal and not some convoluted mess of time and space constantly spinning out of control.

But waking never helped. All he had to do was look up over the breakfast table and see Amy's gaze drifting out to the garden, or catch her staring into space, oblivious to everything around her. Not a dream. And not a fairy tale. At least not the good kind. Not yet, anyway.

Each day, though, it was getting increasingly difficult. He didn't even go into the little room any more. The empty cot and neatly folded nappies left him feeling hollow. He'd found Amy in there one night, staring out the window at the garden below. He'd meant to withdraw quietly, but she'd heard him and turned, her face half-illuminated by the moonlight. He'd expected, perhaps, tears, but that wasn't what he'd seen. Neither of them had spoken, but her eyes never left his, until, finally, breaking away from her gaze, he'd backed out and closed the door. He never saw her go in there again and the door had remained resolutely shut since that night, both of them pretending it didn't even exist.

And so it hadn't helped when he'd discovered it. Buried amidst the random shots of himself and Amy and the Doctor on planets whose names he couldn't even remember. He'd forgotten even taking it until he saw it. Everything had been so perfect. And he had been so utterly happy. His wife. His child. One quick click of the camera phone to capture it forever.

The euphoria of the moment came back to him with mocking bitterness. Perhaps it wasn't only the Doctor who had fallen so far that day.

His thumb hovered over the delete button. What was the point in keeping it? It wasn't real. None of it was real. Not the baby. Not the moment. It was nothing but a cruel reminder of something he'd never really had in the first place.

And yet he couldn't. His thumb slipped benignly to the side of the phone and he stared at Amy's face smiling above their sleeping daughter. Because even if her small newborn body had been somewhere else, it had been _her_ mind and _her_ heart and _her_ soul that had been resting so comfortably in her mother's arms. His daughter…in all the ways that truly mattered.

Besides. It wasn't as if she _wasn't_ real. River was proof enough of that.

"What's that?"

He hadn't heard Amy come up from behind him. Quickly he fumbled for the button that would shut the phone off, but she'd snatched it out of his hand before he could press it. Tensing, he waited, watching as her expression of mischievous curiosity paled into a look even he couldn't read. He closed his eyes and swallowed. Waiting.

Instead of a storm, however, there was silence. Which from Amy was frightening enough. He opened his eyes and saw she was still staring at the picture, her finger hovering over the screen as if she was trying to verify it had matter and substance. The look on her face scared him.

"Amy?"

She shook her head, disbelieving.

"I've seen this…," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I've seen this before…."

"Maybe when you borrowed my mobile…," he offered, but she shook her head again, still staring.

"No…I don't think so…I just…." Her brow furrowed in thought. "I can't remember. Why can't I remember?" She looked up at him, as if he might have the answer.

"I dunno," he admitted. "I'd forgotten it myself, actually."

She studied the phone a moment longer and then handed it back to him. If it wasn't a smile on her face, it was at least an attempt at one. "You're right," she told him, brusquely. "It must have been when I borrowed it last time."

"I could…you know…delete it…."

"No." Her response was so quick as to be almost snappish. It took him by surprise. Apparently Amy too because she immediately added, "I mean…sure…technically it's not Melody…but then technically that wasn't me either, these past few months. It doesn't mean we weren't there. Besides." The smile that followed was winsome. "It's her first baby picture. I'm sure River would like to have it, some day."

"Maybe she already does…."

His eyes met Amy's and for the first time in weeks he saw the small creases of a genuine smile appear at their corners. And she laughed. Truly laughed. Out loud. The sound seemed almost to startle her. Then he was laughing too, until tears were rolling down both their faces. And if not all of the tears were strictly tears of laughter, he certainly wasn't going to point it out.

He waited until Amy was properly asleep that night before slipping out of bed. In the quiet of the house the printer's hum seemed extraordinarily loud, but although he kept expecting her to appear in the doorway, scolding, Amy didn't wake. He'd found a frame that had been thrust in a drawer—a souvenir photo from his stag of him and his mates before the Doctor had popped out of the cake. Strictly speaking, it wasn't the type of frame you'd put a baby picture in, but it would do. Sliding the photograph behind the glass, he reassembled the frame and quietly turned the knob on the door to the little room.

It was the same as the last time he'd been there, and for just a moment the emptiness clawed at him from out of the darkness. Grasping the frame determinedly, he walked over to the small table beside the cot and set it down next to the lamp that was already there. Even in the shadows the two faces in the photo seemed to bring their own kind of light into the room. Rory smiled. There were some things worth remembering after all. And some things worth hoping for too. Maybe one day more than a mere picture would grace the little room.

He awoke the next morning to find Amy already up. She swore she'd heard the TARDIS, but the back garden had been empty and they decided, reluctantly, that it must have been only a dream. Even so, he could hardly stand the disappointment in her eyes and he felt his optimism of the night before seeping away. In the cold light of day the photograph, in retrospect, might not have been the good idea it had seemed; so when Amy had gone out in the afternoon, he slipped back into the little room to retrieve it.

The picture was gone, frame and all.

He felt the pit of his stomach drop as he realized Amy must have discovered what he'd done and changed her mind about wanting it. No wonder she'd been out of sorts. He'd been trying to help, but it had only made matters worse.

It had been foolish, really, what he'd done. He could see that now. Too much time had passed. If the Doctor really had known where their daughter was, she'd have been home with them by now. He'd allowed himself the greatest self-indulgence of all. Hope. False hope, as it turned out.

So it was good the picture was gone. When he had the chance, he'd delete it from his camera phone as well.

Some memories were best lost, after all.

o-o-o-o

It was her oldest tangible memory. The single thread that wound back through time to Leadworth and New York and an attic room with a steel door where the monsters came for her in the night. It had been with her since then. Since the strange man in the blue box—the good wizard—had given it to her and told her it was magic and to keep it with her always. So she had.

She unfolded it now and spread it out on the bed, just as she had done hundreds of times, smoothing out the creases that had been there for ever so long. The face looking up at her was only slightly older than when she'd seen it mere hours before, yet younger than the woman she'd just left in the garden twinkling with fairy lights. But it was more than the passage of time that marked the difference. No one knew that better than she.

He'd told her it was magic, and of course he'd been right. He was always right. The face in the photo had been a guiding star. The road along the way might have been twisted and bumpy, but the star had always brought her right in the end. And considering just how twisted was twisted and how bumpy was bumpy, there was no small magic in that.

The sound of quick, official footsteps reverberated down the corridor. Two people with a definite purpose. The governor and a guard, if she had to guess. So it was time.

She looked around the now empty cell, the contents of which fit into the small trunk waiting patiently at the foot of the bed. Not a lot to show for as long a time as she'd been here. But then, relatively speaking, the time she'd spent actually _here_ was considerably less. Good wizards were clever that way.

The footsteps were coming nearer. She touched the face in the photograph one more time and, folding it up, carefully tucked it in the tattered blue diary. She'd let them carry her trunk, after all. It was the least they could do. The book, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. She quickly tucked it out of sight.

Some memories were best held close, after all.


End file.
